


bake me in a specialty dessert establishment, honey

by nightcap



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Cheesecake, Everyone Is Alive, First Dates, Fluff, Holding Hands, M/M, The Cheesecake Factory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-02-14 06:29:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2181465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightcap/pseuds/nightcap
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I thought it was clear,” says Derek. “Was it not clear? This is… A date. We are on a date.”</p><p>“A date,” repeats Stiles, “We are on a date.”</p><p>“Yes,” says Derek, “We are. On a date.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	bake me in a specialty dessert establishment, honey

**Author's Note:**

> sprung from the famous holland roden quote: "He’s just so nice. He loves the Cheesecake Factory." which is actually describing tyler hoechlin, but, well. 
> 
> totally dedicated to [caroline](http://kctiebishop.tumblr.com/) and that one hotel room. love you, sweetheart, for always and forever and whatever. come over for thanksgiving
> 
> note: minor customary day after edit.

Halfway through Scott’s third round of slurred 80s karaoke, Stiles realizes something: maybe extreme werewolf-drunkage is  _not_ the way to go. See, it was exciting and all, to finally figure out the exact ratio of wolfsbane to vodka for supernatural intoxication, and it had seemed like a good idea at the  _time_ – everyone’s, like, super stressed from all the near-death experiences going on at any given time, “drown your problems in alcohol”, drinking is fun – but the thing is? It’s not really a good idea, in real life.

“Girls jus wanna have _fun_ ,” warbles Scott. He trips on a sofa cushion, which is serving as the pillow of Boyd, who’s in the middle of a nap. Next to Boyd is Isaac, who is, seemingly, examining a corner of the oriental carpet. Allison is splayed on the stair banister (looking unfairly like an angel, as always). Lydia is tearing cold pizza crust into tiny shreds and then throwing it in the air, like confetti.

“Oh, man,” says Stiles, passionately, flicking the belt loop of his pants. “Oh, _man_. How am I going to get them all _home –_ ”

“What,” says Derek, stepping out of the shadows and over Boyd’s unconscious body, “ _possessed_ you, why did you think this would be fun, what – we have to get them all home, and conscious, and –” He starts sputtering. Stiles mentally prepares for the moment he will inevitably stop sputtering and start berating.

And then the impossible happens.

“Do you want,” says Derek, biting his lip, “to go somewhere.”

-

So it is that after putting everyone is semi-upright recovery positions and moving Lydia gently away from the boxes of pizza, Stiles and Derek get into Derek’s car.

“Um,” says Stiles, who’s, like, seventy percent sure Derek is kidnapping him. “What.”

“We are going,” says Derek, like every word physically pains him, “somewhere. Quiet.”

“ _Where_ ,” says Stiles, “also, careful. There’s a kind of pothole, at the end of the driveway? We haven’t gotten around to fixing it yet. You might want to – oof. Yeah. There it is.”

“Oh,” says Derek, “Right. Okay.”

“Also, where are we going,” asks Stiles, again. “Is it one of your sad dilapidated homes? Because I can still go back in, and get us some like, _vaccines_ , or –”

“No,” says Derek, knuckles whitening on the steering wheel. “That will not be _ne_ cessary. We are going to the _Cheesecake Factory_.”

“Oh, my God,” says Stiles, “is that a _euphemism_ –“

-

It turns out that it is not a euphemism. Derek pulls into the parking lot of the legitimate Beacon Hills Cheesecake Factory, which opened last year after an extreme buying battle with a cluster of small local businesses that were driven to bankruptcy. It’s the centerpiece of the Beacon Hills Shopping Center, which Stiles almost forgot existed, due to his friends spending all their time around abandoned warehouses, locker rooms, hospitals, and so on.

“We’re here,” says Derek, once they’re in their parking space. He pulls the keys forcefully from the ignition.

“Are we going to – eat? Dinner? Because it’s two am,” says Stiles, kind of loudly, as Derek’s already left the car. He climbs/sort of scrambles out after him, slipping a little on the damp asphalt.

“We’re not going to – it’s the Cheesecake Factory,” says Derek. “It’s open. You can eat there anytime you want.”

“And you want?” asks Stiles, stepping onto the sidewalk outside the building and almost getting stuck on a decorative bush. “You want to eat here? Derek Hale? The Cheesecake Factory?”

“Yes,” says Derek, like he’s surprised anyone would ask that question. “I _love_ the Cheesecake Factory.”

-

“This is surreal,” announces Stiles, flipping the same two pages of his laminated menu over and over again. “This is _super_ surreal, Hale. Are you going to pay? I’m broke.”

“I brought my wallet,” says Derek, face as stony as ever. He glances up and turns a bit to the left, where a waitress has taken her place next to their table.

“Ready to order?”

“Skinnylicious chicken samosas, miso salmon, peach smoothie, and Craig’s crazy carrot cheesecake,” says Derek. “Please.”

“Samosas, salmon, peach smoothie, and carrot cheesecake,” repeats the waitress, scribbling on her pad. “Got it. And for you, young man?”

“I guess I’ll share the crapton of food he just ordered, thanks,” says Stiles, staring bewilderedly at Derek, who is glaring at the table. They hand the waitress their menus. She thanks them and moves away, probably to a table with less tension. Or not, because all the tables are empty, because it is two am.

“So,” says Stiles, fidgeting in his seat. “We’re here. At the Cheesecake Factory. You _love_ the Cheesecake Factory.”

“Yes,” says Derek, making eye contact. “I used to come here with my friends.”

“Ookay,” says Stiles, mentally deciding to avoid the emotional baggage and make fun of him, instead. A-plus decision. Way better than the alcohol. “I can’t believe you just said ‘Skinnylicious’ uni _ro_ nically.”

“I love Indian food,” says Derek, plainly. “We used to have Friday night Indian food parties, me and my family. We’d go to the fancy place right outside town.”

Stiles mentally decides to just not say _anything_ , because apparently Derek Hale is literally made of emotional baggage.

“So,” says Derek, a minute of silence later. “What do you like to do?”

“I like to read,” says Stiles, lamely. “And okay, you’ve sufficiently weirded me out enough, what are you trying to do –”

“Do me,” says Derek.

“Do – what?”

“Do me,” says Derek, again. “Ask me the question.”

“Uh, right, yeah,” says Stiles, who is actually pretty much terrified. “What do you like to do?”

“I like to collect stamps,” says Derek, “and bake. I’m very good.”

“What,” says Stiles.

“I’m very good at baking,” says Derek. “Lydia loves my blondies. I’ll make you some, sometime –”

“What,” says Stiles, “is going on.”

“Hey, how are we doing?” asks the waitress, who has decided to stop by, presumably because, you know, no one else is actually in the restaurant.

“Well,” says Derek, smiling at her.

“The food should be out in a minute,” she says, and then she’s gone again, and Stiles is left to deal with. Well. Whatever it is that’s happening.

“And my shortcake,” continues Derek, like they were never interrupted. “The only thing I haven’t perfected is my pie. It’s kind of – dry.”

“Oh, my God,” says Stiles, “Oh my God. What. Is. Going. On.” And apparently this time its loud enough, or serious enough, or something, because Derek gives him a straight answer –

“I thought it was clear,” says Derek. “Was it not clear? This is… A date. We are on a date.”

“A date,” repeats Stiles, “We are on a date.”

“Yes,” says Derek, “We are. On a date.”

They sit in silence, for a few moments. And it’s probably how sleepy Stiles is getting, and the fact that he _mostly_ didn’t partake in any alcohol but kind of did? But it makes sense. It all makes sense.

“It makes sense,” he announces, patting the table with his right hand. “It totally makes sense.” It makes sense and it’s kind of cute, actually. The way Derek is emotionally-constipatedly listing his hobbies? And inviting him out for cheesecake? And he offered to pay, really, so it should’ve been – it should’ve been obvious, and if Derek holds his hand under the table, and they never get to actually eating the cheesecake, and they stumble out into the rain at four am, and they kiss a little/a lot against Derek’s car, until Stiles is going to have stubble burn for _weeks_ and Derek fucking _glows_ in the California sunrise, well. It makes sense.

-

(“You didn’t know?” asks Lydia, raising her eyebrows at Stiles. “He’s just so nice. He loves the Cheesecake Factory.”)

**Author's Note:**

> on tumblr at ppprptts.


End file.
